


Shall Yourselves Find Blessing

by LayALioness



Series: 12 Days of Bellarke! [14]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 04:34:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5443502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke thinks Christmas is out to get her, so Bellamy hatches a plan to change her mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shall Yourselves Find Blessing

**Author's Note:**

> my entry for the bellarke advent calendar! (:
> 
> title from Good King Wenceslas

When anyone asks Clarke what her favorite aspect of herself is, she tends to say her immune system. At first, Bellamy thought she just meant it as a joke, to be an asshole--which seemed like a fair thing to think, because she _is_ an asshole. But after knowing her for four years now, he can honestly say her immune system must be made out of steel. He's never seen her with a runny nose, or a coughing fit, or any sort of rash. She doesn't even get cold sores. He's worked with her at the high school for years, and she's never called in sick. Not once.

Which is why he's so confused when he walks out into their living room on the first morning of Christmas Break, fully intending to spend the day binge-watching _Jessica Jones_ and eating those giant marshmallows straight from the bag--but instead, he finds the couch is already taken, by what looks like a mound of blankets, that sniffles pitifully every few seconds.

"Clarke?" he asks, cautious, approaching it slowly, like he would a woodland creature. The blankets give another sniff. "What are you doing?"

"Dying, obviously," she says, voice muffled by all the quilts. He's pretty sure most of them are _his_ , the patterns he worked through and then didn't quite like the end result of. He'd put them in a box, to be donated, but apparently Clarke has adopted them as her own. He'd be a little cocky about it, if he wasn't so concerned.

"Do you need me to drive you to the hospital?" He winces, involuntarily. He still goes to the hospital, obviously, for routine check-up's and things, but he hates it every time. It takes him nearly three showers to wash off the smell of antiseptic, and the only thing he can think of is the pale skin of his mother's corpse when her heart monitor went quiet.

"No." There's some rustling, and finally Clarke's head pokes out of a hole in her nest, hair tangled and face red and puffy, nose dripping, eyes glazed. She looks, well, _awful_. "I have the Christmas flu," she admits, sullen.

"The _what_?"

"The Christmas flu," she says, petulant. If she wasn't so bundled up and sulky, he knows she'd be crossing her arms right about now, setting her shoulders and preparing for war. Arguing with her at the staff meetings used to be his favorite part of day--but now he gets to argue with her in the comfort of their apartment, with her feet in his lap as they eat take out and pseudo watch _Earth After People_ , and he likes that even better.

"The Christmas flu," he echoes, crossing over to sit down beside her. She's surrounded by soggy, used tissues, which he starts to carefully collect, piling them up on the table to throw away later. It's a little gross, but after pretty much raising Octavia, it's not like this is his first rodeo. O was _always_ sick, or injured--she used to bareknuckle brawl on the playground. She broke like, ten different bones, from triple dog dares alone.

"It's the only time of year I get sick," Clarke explains, but she's all congested, so the words sound funny. He has to try very hard not to laugh, but he manages, because he is the best friend of all time.

"Christmas Break?" She nods a little miserably, and he can't swallow the grin back in time. "Wow, that is the saddest thing I've ever heard."

"Shut up, loser," Clarke scowls, poking her little foot, in a fuzzy purple sock, out to kick him in the thigh. It's honestly pathetic, and she nearly falls off the couch. "You got conned by a fake Tina Fey!"

"She looked _just like her_ ," Bellamy grumbles. She always brings that up when she knows she's losing an argument, and it's always unfair. "So, this is why you hate Christmas?"

" _I_ don't hate Christmas," she argues, "Christmas hates _me_."

"When I said I wanted to put up a Christmas tree, you threatened to set it on fire."

"That's because you use a plastic one!" she defends, outraged, and then blows her nose on one of the quilts. It's a testament to how much he likes her, that Bellamy is only mildly disgusted.

"It's green," he shrugs. "And it lasts longer. That thing went through college with me. It's like a dog, but less maintenance."

Clarke squints at him, like she's trying to decide whether or not she should strangle him with her snot-covered quilt. "What are you even still doing here," she says, finally. "Don't you have some grossly cliché holiday thing to do with your sister? Like ice skating, I bet you guys go ice skating every year."

Bellamy does, in fact, go to the skate rink with O every year, but Clarke would only use that fact as more fuel for her theory that he is secretly a grumpier version of Buddy the Elf, so he ignores her.

"Just wait, Griffin," he tugs her feet into his lap, peeling her ridiculous socks off, so he can warm them in his hands. They're tiny little blocks of ice, as usual, and she hums a little, like a cat. "You're living with me, now. This'll be your best Christmas, ever."

Clarke rolls her eyes. "Can't wait," she says, dry, but her eyes are a little brighter, like she's excited about it, in spite of herself. Bellamy counts it a victory.

He starts out small--he goes to visit O at the house she's renting with eight other people, and they crowd around her laptop in the living room, watching YouTube tutorials on how to make fancy paper snowflakes. They're horrible at them, of course, and Bellamy's all come out lopsided, missing some of the little prongs because he keeps accidentally cutting them. Harper's, at least, are pretty good, but all of hers look sort of like screaming faces, which is obviously a neat aesthetic, but not the one that he's going for.

Lincoln is, he notes begrudgingly, the best. He even _paints_ his, the show off. Bellamy sort of wants to toss them out, but he can't really bring himself to. They _are_ very pretty, and anyway Clarke will like them, which is the whole point.

He tapes them up all around the apartment while she's taking a fever nap, and then wakes her up in the evening for some seasonal soup.

"What's so seasonal about it?" she grumbles, still groggy from sleep and overall irritated at being sickly. Clarke _hates_ feeling vulnerable, and she's basically at her weakest right now. If she tried to start her usual bar fight, she'd probably die.

"It's magic," Bellamy chirps, and she glares at him, poking at the soup with her spoon. "Also, nutmeg. And cinnamon. So, Christmas spirit _and_ clearing your sinuses, all in one."

"It's good," she says, sounding bitter about it. But she comes back for seconds, so.

Then he eases his way into the hot chocolate, made from scratch on the stove, like he used to do for Octavia, since the Swiss microwave packets were more expensive. He stirs in some peppermint too, just because, and a million of the tiny marshmallows Clarke likes best. She likes to let them melt into the drink completely, until it's a marbled, sludgy mass, which he can't help but make a face at.

Bellamy doesn't think he's necessarily judgmental, but. At least he has _standards_.

Clarke doesn't catch on until the fifth day, which he chalks up to her current state, since usually she can sniff out a conspiracy like a bloodhound.

"Why do you keep making me hot chocolate?" she demands, when he sets the mug in front of her.

Bellamy keeps his face carefully blank. He's cool, he's collected, he's been waiting for this moment all week. "What's wrong with hot chocolate?"

Clarke just glares at him, suspicious, as she takes her first few sips. Eventually she forgets to be annoyed with him though, settling in against his side like she always does, leaching affection. She's snuggling a lot more than usual, because she's congested and feverish and achy, and Bellamy hates that he's so happy about it, because he doesn't _want_ her to be miserable, but. He's really into the way she's been falling asleep on him, lately, even if she keeps drooling on his shirts.

Raven may have had a point, when she called him an idiot for inviting his work-crush to move into his spare room once her lease was up earlier that year, but. Honestly, he's doing okay with it, he really is. They hang out a lot more now, and go grocery shopping together because one of them inevitably forgets something important if they go on their own, and they eat dinner together most night, and Clarke's added him to her Netflix account, so her ridiculous medical soap operas didn't keep getting lost in the mountain of National Geographic documentaries he has saved in his queue, and sometimes they get drunk and share life stories, trying to compete over which of them is more fucked up.

And yeah, he's crazy in love with her, and wishes she'd actually fall asleep with him in a _bed_ , instead of the couch that fucks up his back, and he wishes he was allowed to kiss her each time they got worked up over their latest debate, but. He's happy with his life, right now. He's not about to fuck it all up by getting greedy.

The third step of his plan to make Clarke love Christmas involves stuffing her Netflix queue with every single holiday movie available, half of which are Hallmark made-for-tv flicks that he's never even seen, and is looking forward to heckling with her.

He gets back from his monthly brunch at O's--which always consists of just a lot of blueberry waffles and burnt toast, because her roommates don't believe in balanced meals, either--to find Clarke in her usual position; bundled up in the quilts that she's claimed and marked as her own, glaring at the TV screen like it has personally offended her.

 _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_ is playing, the one with Jim Carey, which always makes Bellamy cringe. There are just a lot of--unnecessary things, in that film.

"Fight me," Clarke mumbles when Jim Carey, in his green paint and synthetic fur, fills up the screen. She burrows even further into the blankets. "I'll kick your ass." She sniffles.

Bellamy doesn't bother fighting a grin as he shoves her over, to make room for him on the couch. She settles half in his lap basically immediately, pressing her hot, feverish face to the skin of his neck, still cold from outside.

"Fuck Jim Carey," she says with a yawn. "I want to punch him in the face."

"As hilarious as that would be, you probably shouldn't. I feel like he'd be the type to file a lawsuit about that."

Clarke makes a face. "He totally would," she agrees. "Douchebag."

Bellamy hums, rubbing her back the way she likes, so she goes boneless against him, and then takes the liberty of switching over to the Muppet’s _A Christmas Carol_. "It's your life story," he teases. She sticks out her tongue. "Mature."

"I try," she agrees, settling in for the movie, close enough she can probably feel his pulse start to race. She doesn't mention it; she's probably too sick to notice.

The fourth step is the tree--a real tree, this time, and he takes O's roommate Maya with him, because she is apparently a tree expert. Octavia complains about her week-long nature communes all the time, because she never really warns them, before heading out to live in the woods for a few days. The first several times, they nearly reported her missing.

"I thought you were Jewish," he says, careful. He never actively tries to be offensive, but sometimes it just happens.

Maya just shrugs, looking mournfully at the ceramic Christmas village window display. They're at the outlet mall downtown, which has a market of Frasier Firs outside, being sold by the local boy scouts. "I am," she says. "You don't have to be Christian to enjoy Christmas."

Bellamy can't really argue with that, so he just takes her lead, following along as she studies each tree carefully, flicking the branches to check for loose needles, circling around them to make sure they're even on all sides.

Finally, she points at a solid six-footer, and says "That one," firmly enough that Bellamy isn't about to say no. So he just helps the kids carry it over to the netting machine, and then pays the ridiculous amount of money that he would have been able to save with his _fake_ tree, and then tips the boys after they rope the thing to his car.

He begs some spare ornaments off of Octavia, but draws the line at tinsel, since it flakes everywhere and takes _years_ to get rid of, completely. It's like glitter 2.0. He decorates the tree while Clarke's in the bath--she's been taking a lot of baths lately, since they soothe her achy back; she spends hours in there, reading or falling asleep in the tub, and always comes out wrapped up in her ridiculously pink, fluffy robe, looking flushed and clean and impossible for him to look at. It's sort of the worst.

Bellamy's finishing up the last strand of lights by the time she comes out, wearing her robe _and_ fuzzy socks _and_ one of the quilts draped around her shoulders like a cape, the kind a superhero's grandmother might send them for Christmas, with French Bulldogs in bowties all around the border, because he was working on animal forms, that month.

He's expecting some sort of accusation, like _are you seriously trying to smother me with holiday spirit?_ followed up by her threatening to kick him out until January, or something. But instead Clarke just stands there, eyes wide but saying nothing, and Bellamy stares back.

He's finally rendered Clarke Griffin _actually speechless_. It seems like the sort of thing he should have carved onto his tombstone, since it's such a feat. Once she's not feeling miserable, he is going to tease her until the end of time.

When he wakes up in the morning and heads to the kitchen to start the Keurig, he glances at the tree and then freezes. Tucked up underneath it, wrapped impeccably in fancy gold wrapping paper, is a present. It's the exact size and shape of a book, so it's not exactly mysterious, and when Bellamy goes to get a better look at it, he sees there's a tag.

_To: Bellamy. Thanks for being the best._

_From: C._

She's drawn a little anatomical heart by her initial, with a detailed crown on top, and the doodle's obviously good and badass, but. He's pretty sure it _means_ something, and it's a little infuriating, because he doesn't know _what_.

He fights the urge to ask about it, all day, and his eyes keep drifting back to the tree when he's not actively paying attention. But Clarke just shuffles around in her clump of cozy sickliness, and shit talks whatever show he puts on, and cuddles up to him on the couch like always, so Bellamy lets it go. After all, it's just another week until Christmas, so he'll find out soon.

The last step of Bellamy's plan involves him signing into the school forum, which students can use to contact teachers about last-minute essay turn-in's, or extra-credit projects, or test dates. But it also lets teachers contact any students that already have an account, so he sends out a mass email to all the ones that he knows like Clarke best. They're not hard to find--Clarke's probably one of the most relaxed teachers on staff, without being a doormat, and she lets her kids draw and paint on the classroom walls. For almost anyone else, that would mean a lot of crudely sketched dicks, but not Clarke. One of her walls has turned into some sort of montage of alien mermaids in space, and it's honestly his favorite part of the building.

He and Clarke are watching the original stop-motion _Rudolph_ , which is her actual favorite apparently, because she's so impressed by the work that went into production--because of _course_ she cares more about the production quality than the actual fucking _story_ , because Clarke is the actual _worst_ at Christmas--when there's a knock on their door. Their apartment building has a faulty lock on the front door, which someone got tired of having to deal with, so it's been propped up with half a cinder block for about six months, now, which means people can come in and go out as they please.

"Who the fuck," Clarke grumbles, because she has to shift off of his lap, so Bellamy can go get the door. He tries to hide his grin, but he's not sure it's working--he's just so fucking excited for what comes next. Bellamy almost never does elaborate plans, because he's sort of lazy when it comes to thinks like human interaction, and also because he just never gets away with it. But Clarke is at her least observant, so he's actually positive it's going to be a surprise.

He cracks the door open, grinning at the ten or fifteen students who are waiting outside, ihome and everything, all cued up to go. He mouths _just a second_ , and then turns back towards the couch.

"Princess," he calls, just serious enough that he knows she'll come over, all grumpy concern, still mummified in blankets. He can hear the kids outside giggling like they always do when he calls her that--he's like eighty percent sure they've got a betting pool on whether or not he and Clarke are actually together.

He's hoping that after tonight, at least half of them will get rich.

"What is it," Clarke asks, little wrinkle forming between her eyebrows, like it always does when she's worried. "Is it Mrs. Maloney, again? Tell her it's not our fault that the water heater's--"

"It's not Mrs. Maloney," he tells her, and opens the door.

He's not sure which of the kids actually starts up the music, but they launch right into Good King Wenceslas without missing a beat, and Clarke stands slack jawed in the doorway.

They run through Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer and Frosty the Snowman, finally ending on Silent Night, before the leader of the group--a sweet girl named Charlotte--hands over an enormous card made of red and green cardstock, with a massive red velvet bow hot glued to the front.

Clarke's ducked her face into his chest by now, clearly delighted and embarrassed about it. She pulls back and wipes her face on the corner of the blanket, giving them all a watery smile.

"I'd hug you, but I'm pretty sure getting you sick three days before Christmas would make me the worst teacher ever," she says, and they all laugh, predictably. Clarke's their favorite.

"Feel better, Miss Griffin!" they wave, heading off. "And merry Christmas, Mr. Blake!" they add as an afterthought, and he grins a little wryly. He's clearly _not_ their favorite, and it shows. Clarke looks smug about it.

The inside of the card has been filled with random little doodles and swirly letters as they all signed their names, and big bubbly stickers that read ALL WE WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS FOR YOU TO GET WELL with about seven exclamation marks, to really get the point across. Bellamy hangs it on the fridge with the magnet set O bought them, that look like little scrabble block letters.

When he turns around, Clarke's looking at him thoughtfully, eyes still pink, either from the fever or the impromptu carols, he's not sure. Finally, she says "Are you seriously trying to woo me on Christmas's behalf?"

Bellamy flushes without really meaning to, but keeps his voice impressively even, because he's awesome. "Something like that."

He goes back over to the couch, waiting for Clarke to follow, but it's a few agonizing minutes before she does. She didn't pause the movie before joining him at the door, so they've missed nearly half of it, and he starts to rewind.

Clarke sits beside him, carefully, tucking her legs up underneath her to protect them from the elements. When he glances over, she's looking up.

"Was that a part of your plan, too?"

He follows her gaze up to the mistletoe. Honestly, he'd only put it up to see how long it took for her to notice, but then he'd forgotten about it himself.

But--it's Christmas, and that's the season for romantic confessions and miracles and shit. So he works very hard at swallowing, and says "Maybe."

Clarke beams, the happiest she's seemed since Thanksgiving, when he'd spilled cranberry sauce down his shirt and she'd snorted wine out her nose, she was laughing so hard.

"You really don't need mistletoe to kiss me," she teases, leaning forward, and he grins, feeling impossibly relieved and fucking _happy_. Clarke always makes him feel happy, but this, the rush of giddy excitement, like he's some teenager on his first date? That's new, and he likes it.

"You better not be contagious," he warns, and she laughs, which seems fair. Even if she was the _most_ contagious, he'd still kiss her. There's really no scenario in which he wouldn't kiss Clarke, if she wanted to.

"If I was, you'd probably be sick already," she reasons, and that's good enough for him.

He does get sick, obviously, and right before Christmas.

"You're the worst," he mutters, blowing his nose for a third time, and popping a couple of Dayquil, too.

Clarke just grins, curling up half on top of him, just like she's done a million times before. The hickeys along her neck are a new addition, though. And so is her mouth, warm and wet against his skin.

"Want me to kiss it better?" she smirks, sliding down, and yeah, Bellamy has to admit--

This really is the best Christmas, ever.

 


End file.
